


Frail

by zoodream



Category: U2, U2 (Band)
Genre: Banter, Established Relationship, M/M, Mortality, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Older But Not Always Wiser, Self Confidence Issues, Switching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-05
Updated: 2018-01-05
Packaged: 2019-02-28 12:13:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13271232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zoodream/pseuds/zoodream
Summary: A journalist's description gets under Bono's skin. Edge has a plan.





	Frail

**Author's Note:**

> Stand-alone vignette in the same alternate universe as [Bridge](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11933130), inspired by an article with questionable descriptions in the Irish Times. Same disclaimers apply: none of this happened, I'm just pretending these guys are fictional characters.
> 
> Thanks to PJSideProject for commiserating about insensitive journalists :)

Edge has been expecting this call for the past ten minutes, which is precisely the amount of time the _Times_ article has been available online.

“Frail,” Bono gripes, the word more expletive than adjective. Bono’s voice cracks on it, irony its owner might appreciate under any other circumstance.

Edge has used those ten minutes to come up with a strategy. “Come over.”

“I dunno. I seem to have misplaced my walker.”

“It’s in here next to my cane.”

Bono exhales and hangs up.

Edge opens his hotel room door when he hears Bono’s unmistakable tread in the hallway: assertive strides in heeled boots. Today, however, his stride’s a little slower than usual. Edge curses the Times writer for the upteenth time when he sees the look on Bono’s face. Deflated. Defeated. It’s utterly unnatural, and more than a little jarring.

“I’ve got extra adult diapers if you need ‘em,” Edge says, trying out a lighthearted grin.

This manages to twist Bono’s expression into the smallest of smiles, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Funny.”

“I try.”

Bono ignores the plush chairs in Edge’s standard issue suite and sits down hard on the unmade bed.

“See, if that reporter could only see you now,” Edge says, settling into the closest chair. “He doesn’t know you can still sulk like a sixteen-year-old.”

Bono looks back at him, eyes grave and red-rimmed behind tinted round frames. “Frail, The Edge,” he says, and it’s a solemn pronouncement. A statement of fact. “We talked about fuck-all in that interview for three hours, world poverty, the fucking Joshua Tree, the new album, and what does he get out of it? Frail. I look frail. Up close and personal, I’m a wilted fucking flower. Soft. Washed-up. One foot in the grave. Past my expiration date.”

Edge’s ability to lighten the mood has vanished. His annoyance at the _Times_ reporter flares into fury, and his jaw clenches against the spike of rage that’s not part of his careful plan. Bono’s pretty thick-skinned -- he’s had to put up with all manner of slander over the years -- but Christ, of all the words this reporter could have chosen --

Bono can sense Edge’s anger even underneath Edge’s trademark poker face. “Ah, don’t be like that, Reg. He was speaking the truth. It’s just that sometimes truth is hard to swallow first thing in the morning.”

“It’s not truth,” Edge grits out. “He has no idea what he’s talking about.”

Bono shrugs, and the defeat is still there in his eyes, settling over his shoulders like some kind of invisible blanket. “Experience takes its toll. It’s there for anyone to see.”

No. This won’t do, and the sheer wrongness of Bono’s posture is enough to bring back the control Edge so rarely loses. He wrestles his rage back into something more constructive.

“B. Listen. That guy’s an idiot. He’s trying to stir the pot, trying to get page views. He wants a sensational headline. ‘Bono of U2 is a frail old man--’”

“He wasn’t like that,” Bono interrupts.

“They’re all like that, even the nice ones.”

Bono tuts fondly. “Such cynicism from the Jedi Master.”

Edge’s voice softens. “I thought I was the Zen Presbyterian.”

Bono’s eyes twinkle despite their melancholy glaze. “You are definitely both.”

Suddenly, they are too far apart, as is often the case. Decades of friendship, of love, of undressing each other in every sense, and sometimes it feels as if Edge still can’t get close enough. He pushes himself out of his chair and settles next to Bono on the bed, shoulder to shoulder. “Bono. I promise. You’re not frail. I can speak with authority on this topic.”

Bono leans against him, all warmth and pressure, letting Edge take some of his weight.

When they started out, Bono never used to do this, never leaned on anyone. No, when Edge met him, Bono was the human equivalent of a missile, launching himself into the world, exploding into every crowd. Edge stayed instinctively to one side, ready to haul him back from any precipice. And there were a hell of a lot of precipices. Bono found them all.

It was only later that Bono began to realize Edge was always there. That somehow, over the years, Edge had gone from a wiry bolt of electricity to a grounded lightning rod, ready to absorb everything Bono could throw in his direction.

But it still took a while for Bono to let Edge hold him up.

Bono found his way eventually, draping himself over Edge, lingering a little longer each time, finally understanding that Edge would always be by his side.

It still takes Edge’s breath away when it happens.

Bono rests his head against Edge’s shoulder, and Edge can see the familiar pattern of freckles across his forehead, the deep lines worn like grooves in vinyl at the corners of his eyes. He supposes someone who didn’t know Bono would see age, and time, and vulnerability. After all, Bono is small, weathered, a mere mortal in the end. They have certainly been reminded of that far too many times for Edge’s comfort.

“I almost died,” Bono says quietly.

Edge’s hand closes over Bono’s shoulder. “I know, love. Believe me, I know.”

“I’m sorry.”

Edge’s hand tightens. He brushes a kiss against Bono’s temple, against his soft, recently dyed hair. “Sorry for what? That you’re not superhuman? That you’re not made of titanium? Don’t worry, I figured that out a while ago.”

Bono elbows Edge in the ribs with a very particular elbow. “I’m partially made of titanium.”

Edge nudges him back. “Knew you’d argue the point.”

Edge feels Bono chuckle. “Bastard.”

“Eedjit.”

“God, Edge.” Bono sighs. “I love you.”

“I love you too. Now will you listen to me for once?”

“I always listen to you,” Bono says earnestly.

And this, Edge knows, is actually true. The thought makes it a little bit difficult to get out the next words, so he leans in and presses another kiss to Bono’s forehead.

“Christ, don’t cry, Edge.”

In recent years Edge has doled out enough tearful kisses that Bono knows them by now. He doesn’t bother denying it, and instead, pulls Bono a little closer. “You’re not frail,” he manages, “and here’s how I know. I’ve watched you pull more crazy shit in a single night than most people manage in their lifetimes.”

A rueful laugh. “Insanity isn’t the same thing as invulnerability. I think I’ve finally learned the difference.”

“No, listen to me, B. I’ve watched you dangle from drainpipes, climb up lighting rigs, jump into every ocean on the planet. I mean, if you take damage, someone has to try and stop you, because otherwise you’ll just keep going. You are, by far, the strongest person I’ve ever known. I can’t imagine anyone stronger, to be honest.”

Bono doesn’t say anything, but Edge can feel his posture change: the smallest of exhales as his shoulders shift. _Yes_.

“And, I mean, I should _really_ know,” Edge adds, letting his voice drop into a sly whisper, “because you can take it. From me. And I’m not always gentle.”

The tips of Bono’s ears flush, and he laughs, rough and off-guard. “That _is_ true.”

“And you can give it out, too --”

“Edge.” Bono’s hand slides across his thigh, squeezes once. “Warn a man.”

Edge grins, because this was, after all, the plan. He’s not a chess player like Bono, but he does know how to maneuver his friend into a more favorable mindset. “Absolutely not.” He raises his eyebrows innocently as Bono looks up at him. “I can’t imagine you’d ever take advantage.”

Bono’s hand moves slowly, kneading gently: Edge’s inner thigh, then a little higher. “You’re making it very hard not to.”

Edge shivers with pleasure, letting Bono see his reaction. He says nothing, but gives Bono another innocent look. _C’mon, B._

“You wanker,” Bono says, tossing his glasses onto the quilt. In half a minute he’s got his thighs on either side of Edge’s and his tongue in Edge’s ear. Edge laughs and writhes a bit, letting Bono pin his shoulders to the mattress, encouraging Bono to have his way. Over the years, they’ve never fallen into a pattern: sometimes Edge likes to take control, but sometimes it’s Bono who gets that feral look in his eyes and backs Edge into a corner after a show. And this morning, that’s precisely what Edge wants Bono to do.

It’s probably obvious, this plan. To someone with Bono’s overactive brain and intimate knowledge of Edge, it’s a plan that verges on transparent. But even so, it’s not a bad one.

Edge arches up into Bono’s touch and groans happily as Bono slides his hands up and down his chest. “Shoes,” he breathes, and within 30 highly experienced seconds he and Bono are crawling up the length of the bed, half-naked, jeans and shoes discarded at the foot. Edge positions himself on his back and wrests off his shirt, and Bono looms over him, pushing him back into the mattress and sucking a hard, insistent kiss into the soft skin of his shoulder.

“Frail, my arse,” Edge breathes.

Bono’s eyes gleam with fondness and arousal. “Your arse, yes, that’s the general idea.”

Edge laughs, drawing in an involuntary breath as Bono’s tongue traces patterns over his bare chest. “There’s the Bono I know.”

“I see what you did.” Bono licks kisses over his solar plexus, his clavicle, and Edge marvels at Bono’s ability to keep talking through almost any activity. “Clever Edge. You’re a clever, gorgeous creature, and you always have been.”

And then Bono takes over, weathered hands, sun-stained face, battle scars and all.

 

Some time later, they lie back in the wreck of Edge’s hotel sheets, sweaty and heavy-limbed. Bono breathes in deeply, a hearty sigh of satisfaction, and Edge smiles, watching Bono’s chest rise and fall. There’s something about the set of Bono’s chin that relays a bit of his usual cocky confidence, not entirely restored, but certainly improved.

Edge nudges him. “Better?”

“Mmmm.” Bono’s voice is a rough, warm rumble. “You?”

“I was fine.”

“Were you?”

“Yeah.”

Bono gives him a sly smile, then stretches, taking up an unexpected amount of space for a person of his size -- but then, that’s Bono. If he’s a little bit careful about his repaired elbow when he folds his arms behind his head, Edge doesn’t mention it. There has to be a balance between bluster and caution, and Bono may find his way there yet.

“You know, you haven’t said a word about what that writer called me,” Edge says casually, stretching out his own stiff joints in the tangle of sheets. “I think I came off worse than you did.”

“What?”

“You stopped reading after ‘frail,’ didn’t you?”

“I -- might have.”

Edge laughs. “Well, let’s just say if you’d gotten my pair of adjectives, you’d be eating celery for the next month.”

Bono gives him an incredulous look. “No.”

“Yeah.” Edge clears his throat. “‘Sprightly, yet sturdy.’”

This elicits an actual bark of laughter from Bono. “No!”

“Oh yes. Makes me sound like a fat old leprechaun.” He smirks. “Maybe I am.”

Bono’s still laughing in disbelief. “No, no,” he says, then lets his gaze wander up and down the length of Edge’s body, half-in, half-out of the sheets. “Never. No, maybe he means -- you’re like an elf.” Bono’s grin widens. “An elf made of steel.”

Edge laughs so hard he has to mop at his eyes. “An elf. Jesus. So you’re a wilted flower, and I’m a fecking elf?”

“Or a pixie.”

“Oh my god.”

“It’s a compliment.”

“If someone called you ‘sturdy,’ you’d be singing a different tune. And ‘sprightly’ -- hell, they use that for _old_ people.”

There are certain advantages to being sturdy, y’know,” Bono says, arching his eyebrows. “You could show me just how sturdy you really are.”

Edge grins. “I dunno, I wouldn’t want to crush such a delicate blossom.”

“Now, now. An elf could never hurt a flower.”

“Leprechaun,” Edge corrects, rolling up on one elbow to look down at his partner, and loving every last groove that appears at the corners of his eyes. “I think they were calling me a leprechaun.”

“There are worse things to be. You know what they say about old leprechauns.”

“I don’t, actually.”

“Good luck charms.” He pokes Edge’s side. “And they put up with their best mate’s ridiculous shite. Oh, and if they sit on your chest in the middle of the night, they crush you.”

Edge dissolves into laughter again. “That’s the incubus.”

“And the particularly sturdy variety of leprechaun.”

“You frail bastard,” Edge says, and reaches for Bono.


End file.
